


Undeclared Variables

by brinnanza



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Service Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mr. Reese, I thought I told you to take the day off,” calls Finch when he hears the metallic scrape of the Library’s gate opening and then closing again.</p><p>“You did,” Reese confirms, coming into the main room.  Bear bounds up to him, expecting his usual scratch behind the ears, but one of Reese’s arms is bound up in a sling against his chest, and he’s carrying a cardboard coffee tray with the other. He sets the drinks down on the table and hands one to Finch before kneeling down to pet Bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undeclared Variables

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr prompt; number nine [here](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/132935369416/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-line-of-dialogue-and-ill). Thanks to Dana/theragnarokd and Aadarshinah for the beta read!

“Mr. Reese, I thought I told you to take the day off,” calls Finch when he hears the metallic scrape of the Library’s gate opening and then closing again.

“You did,” Reese confirms, coming into the main room. Bear bounds up to him, expecting his usual scratch behind the ears, but one of Reese’s arms is bound up in a sling against his chest, and he’s carrying a cardboard coffee tray with the other. He sets the drinks down on the table and hands one to Finch before kneeling down to pet Bear.

Finch frowns down at the tea and then at Reese. “And yet here you are, which hardly seems appropriate given the circumstances of your injury,” he says, setting the cup down on the table.

“It’s fine, Finch. I’m fine.” Reese hauls the dog off of him and to the side with his good arm, then gets back to his feet to stand entirely closer to Finch than is necessary and peer down at his monitors.

“I’d hardly call a broken arm _fine_ ,” says Finch.

“It’s just a fracture. That’s barely broken.” 

Finch’s frown deepens -- Reese’s attitude toward his physical well being is alarmingly blasé -- but he takes a sip of the tea. Reese smiles, and Finch frowns at that too. “Are you certain there isn’t anything you’d rather being doing today?”

Reese shakes his head. “Nope. No new number?”

“Not yet. Although in your condition --”

“I’ve handled numbers in worse shape than this,” Reese reminds him patiently. He snags his coffee from the table, then drops into a chair. Bear pads over to settle at his feet, and Reese drinks his coffee, scratching Bear’s belly with the toe of his shoe. “I’ve got nothing going on, and I thought you might want some company.”

More likely, Finch thinks, what Reese had planned for a free day was following Finch in an effort to gather more breadcrumbs of information and since Finch is here, so is Reese. 

He doesn’t say that though, so Reese continues, “I thought we could see a movie. The art theater is showing one of those German films you like.”

Finch’s frown slides toward suspicious. “The ones you spent the last time deriding for their use of subtitles?” Reese shrugs.

It’s tempting. It’s just the day for it -- overcast and grey and a little chilly -- but he rather thinks he’s put Reese through enough already. “I appreciate the offer,” he says instead, “but I have quite a lot of work I need to get through today. Perhaps another time.” 

“Okay,” says Reese. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He twists in the chair to pull a book off of the shelf behind him, and Finch returns his attention to his monitors. One of his aliases has just been assigned a new project. It would take Harold Shrike about six months to complete, but Harold Finch can have it finished and divided into deliverable monthly chunks by early evening -- really, putting the bugs back in is the more time-consuming task.

He sinks into the work, leaving Reese to his own devices. It’s a welcome distraction anyway. The work is of little consequence, just basic database design for an obscure software company that will probably never release the finished project. The code is mindless -- simple by design and inelegant by necessity -- and an error here will result in nothing more dramatic than a terse email from Mr. Shrike’s employer.

It would have been easier, of course, if Reese had taken the proffered day off. Instead he hovers just outside of Finch’s field of vision, reading or playing with Bear or cleaning his guns. It’s on the tip of Finch’s tongue to ask “Should you really be doing that one-handed?” on several separate occasions, but ultimately, he decides Reese alone knows best what he’s capable of, so he lets it pass without comment.

He manages eventually to hit that sweet spot in coding where everything beyond the edges of his computer screen fades away into easily ignored background noise. He’s dimly aware of Reese taking Bear out for a walk and returning sometime later. A sandwich appears at his elbow at one point, reminding Finch he hasn’t eaten, so he spares a moment to shoot Reese a look. He means to make a comment about Reese being even a fraction as concerned with his own welfare as he seems to be with Finch’s, but then he gets sidetracked by a new online banking protocol that’s making the rounds and he gets lost in ways to circumvent it, typing one-handed while he eats with the other. Reese fades into the background once more.

When Finch comes up again, the weak sunlight that had been fighting the heavy clouds to filter in through the Library’s windows has been replaced by the wet yellow glow of street lamps on a rainy night. Reese is sprawled out on the floor against a bookshelf, reading. Bear is half in his lap, tail wagging contentedly. If he had the hand free, Finch is sure Reese would have his fingers buried in the fur at the scruff of Bear’s neck, but as it is, balancing the book on Bear’s flank and turning pages with his thumb is the extent of his ability to multitask.

He must feel Finch looking at him because he sets the book aside, pats Bear a couple of times, and then looks up. “You all finished?”

“Nearly,” Finch replies a little absently. He still needs to review the code, make sure it’s firmly within Mr. Shrike’s established skillset, and probably include a few more errors, but the bulk of the work is done. “I’m a little surprised you’re still here, Mr. Reese.”

“Did you want me to leave?”

“No,” says Finch. True, he would have been perfectly content to spend the day alone, though he would have put off taking Bear out until it became absolutely necessary and even then only for a short, cursory walk. He probably would have missed lunch altogether.

He has become, Finch thinks, entirely too used to Reese’s constant presence.

Reese nudges Bear out of his lap and gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders in a way that Finch can’t help but watch. “You want me to pick up something for dinner?” Reese offers. “You can keep working.”

“That isn’t necessary,” says Finch. “I can have something delivered.”

“It’s no trouble,” says Reese. “Bear probably wants to go out again anyway. Don’t you boy?” He leans down to scratch the dog under the chin. “How about that Lebanese place we went to a few months ago? We haven’t been there in a while.”

Finch leans back in his chair so he can raise a skeptical eyebrow at Reese. The reason they had not returned to that particular establishment was because while Finch had enjoyed his meal immensely, Reese had not especially cared for it. There were plenty of restaurants that appealed just as well to both of them, so he’d stricken it from his list.

“Are you sure there isn’t somewhere else you’d prefer?” he asks.

Reese shrugs. “I’m not picky.”

Finch blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m not interested in what you’d _tolerate_ , Mr. Reese. I’m interested in what you’d _prefer_."

“Really, Harold, whatever you want is fine with me.”

Usually, Finch is more than happy to make all the decisions about this sort of thing -- he prefers it, actually, and since Reese’s desires are not that difficult to discern, he knows Reese prefers it that way too. He could just select somewhere else, somewhere he knows Reese likes, and instruct Reese to go there instead. And Reese would -- especially if Finches voices the request with the steely tone that means it isn’t up for discussion.

He hesitates, but Reese is looking at him with that stubborn glint in his eye, so eventually Finch says, “Very well. But there’s no need for you to go out. I believe they’ll deliver.” He reaches for his phone.

“Finch, I’ve got it,” says Reese, shrugging on his jacket and waving Finch off when he gets up to assist. “You’ve given me so much -- this is the least I can do.”

Finch’s temper flares. “I’ve also given you a broken arm,” he snaps, gesturing to the sling.

Reese pauses, then hangs his jacket back up and crosses the room to Finch. He turns Finch’s chair to face him and crowds into his space, leaning over him with his good hand balanced on the arm of the chair. “This wasn’t your fault, Finch,” he says, his voice slow and deliberate.

Finch tries to turn his chair away, to escape the heavy weight of Reese’s gaze, but Reese holds him still. He settles for dropping his eyes to Reese’s chest, to the sling and Reese’s fractured ulna.

“Yes, thank you for that,” Finch says, unable to keep the faintly irritated sarcasm out of his tone, “but the fact remains that had I been watching the cameras, Mr. Carmichael would not have been able to sneak up on you and you would not have been injured.”

“And I should have been more careful,” Reese counters. “It’s a dangerous job, Finch. I knew that going in.” He slides to his knees to he can catch Finch’s eye again and covers Finch’s hands with his own. “If you want to blame someone, blame me -- I’m the one that let Carmichael get the drop on me. Or better yet, blame Carmichael.”

“Still,” says Finch, “you should be able to rely on me to --”

“I can,” Reese says. “Trust me, Finch, I can. This wasn’t your fault, I promise.” Finch frowns down at him, not quite mollified, and Reese gives him a faint smile. “Come on. We’ll get dinner at the Lebanese place you like, and afterwards we’ll see a movie or stop by the used bookstore on 7th.”

“Stop trying to cheer me up, Mr. Reese. I’m not the one who’s injured,” Finch says, but he lets Reese pull him to his feet.

“It’s not entirely selfless,” says Reese, letting Finch help him with his coat this time. “Making you happy makes me happy.” His smiles turns a little shy and his cheeks flush pink.

Finch does up the buttons of Reese’s jacket over his broken arm and then takes a step back to give him a long, considering look. “It really does, doesn’t it?” Reese shrugs, ducking his head a little.

They have put this off long enough, Finch thinks. Perhaps there was a reason once, but they have already crossed so many lines together. What’s one last gulf when the other side holds such promise?

Reese is leaning over to clip Bear’s lead to his collar. Finch touches his elbow and he straightens up again, raising an inquiring eyebrow. “Finch?”

Finch smiles at him, the soft contented one that he uses far too infrequently, and slides his hand around to the back of Reese’s neck, tugging him down until their lips meet.

When they’d first met, Finch had told Reese he knew exactly everything about him. It was true to a point -- everything that could be learned from transcripts and distant observation and CIA dossiers had been tracked down and cataloged until Finch had what he’d thought formed a complete picture of John Reese.

He hadn’t known Reese can make huevos rancheros to envy some of Finch’s favorite restaurants. He hadn’t known the way the tips of Reese’s ears go pink when he’s paid a sincere compliment.

And he hadn’t known _this_ \-- how Reese kisses soft and languid like he’s got all day, like he never needs or wants to do anything else. How his body melts against Finch’s until there’s no space between them. How he splays his fingers across the small of Finch’s back, anchoring them together -- if the tide should wash them out to sea, at least they’ll still have each other.

Reese kisses like perfect code, and the background fades away.


End file.
